


A Prize No Less in Worth

by Verecunda



Category: Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: To the victor go the spoils, and Mark Antony is never one to let a prize slip through his fingers.





	A Prize No Less in Worth

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old, old fic that I originally posted on LJ, which I apparently overlooked when I first started uploading my stuff here. Uploading it now, in a mixed spirit of nostalgia and persnicketyness.
> 
> Thanks to my old LJ friend dontcrosscross for betaing it when it was originally written.

As night deepens, the camp is replete with the laughter of men and the raucous notes of marching songs, but there is something almost muted about it. Antony is hardly surprised. A victory over fellow Romans is as much cause for sorrow as it is one for joy.

But a victory it is, all the same. As he makes his way between the lines of tents, he hears the boasts exchanged over the mess tins, the booty shared and squabbled over around the campfires. Antony smiles to himself. He has spoils of his own to claim.

The tent to which he is bound is larger than those allotted to the legionary contubernia: more befitting an officer. It is guarded, as he ordered, but at the sight of him, the sentries uncross their javelins and let him pass without challenge.

Inside it is sparsely furnished, supplied with the necessities for comfort and no more. Lamps blaze on every surface, and their flickering dance of light and shadow picks out the form of the man sitting on the edge of the low camp-bed, his head buried in his hands. At the sound of Antony’s approach, he looks up, slowly, almost reluctantly. The shadows on his face shift with the lamplight, but still Antony sees that his eyes are dark and rimmed with red. His expression, however, is blank.

“Mark Antony.” A listless acknowledgement, no more.

Antony bares his teeth in a smile. “Greetings to most noble Brutus.”

Now an expression does cross that face: a flinch of pain. It is not Brutus, of course. Tonight Brutus lies cold and still in Octavius’ tent. Antony himself wrapped the body, in his own cloak. That Marcus Brutus should lie dead is yet a strange reality, and doubtless has some bearing upon the subdued mood of the men’s celebrations. Even Antony cannot find it in himself to rejoice in Brutus’ death.

Lucilius shifts uncomfortably beneath his gaze. Every movement seems an effort. The loss of the battle and the death of Brutus have quite wearied him. He has bathed, Antony sees, washed himself of the dirt of the battlefield, and he has rested, but he seems little better for it. Sitting there, hemmed in by the lengthening shadows, he looks alone and bereft. The sight of him evokes a stir in Antony’s blood which has nothing to do with pity.

“Does the hospitality of my camp please you, Lucilius?” Slowly, he steps further inside the tent, letting the hide flap fall behind him. 

“Well enough,” Lucilius replies, staring at the floor.

Loosening his neck-scarf, Antony crosses the tent to the small wooden table by the bedside, where there is a ewer of wine and a cup, still untouched. He has had his fair share of wine already this night, but nevertheless he pours the wine and drinks. Strong, not too much water, he notes with approval.

His eyes flicker up to see Lucilius watching him closely. He drains the cup, refills it, then holds it out. Lucilius regards him almost suspiciously for a moment, before taking the cup from him and drinking deeply. Antony smiles.

He watches the movement of Lucilius’ throat as he drinks: swiftly, pitching it almost entirely past his tongue. Here is a man who is not concerned with the taste of the wine, merely with the stupefaction it will bring him. Idly, Antony wonders what he wishes to forget most: the fact of his surrender, or his quickness to embrace it?

“Why are you here?” Lucilius’ voice is still carefully flat.

Antony cocks his head. “I wished only to share a cup of wine with a friend. We are all friends now, are we not?”

“As you will.” Lucilius stares at the floor, his eyes glassy. Antony’s eyes trace the hunch of his neck with a strange dissatisfaction. A change has been wrought in him since he was first brought over to their side. He remembers the defiance that blazed in Lucilius’ eyes as he stood before him on the battlefield, bayed yet triumphant, his chin high as he declared that they would never take Brutus alive. That fire is ashes now, yet Antony can still see a flicker of it in the determination with which Lucilius holds himself in check. There is yet an ember glowing there; it needs but a cause to fan it into a flame. Brutus and Cassius are dead, their cause is now extinct, but - the thought comes to Antony, heady as the wine - there are surely other ways in which it might be drawn out.

His mouth curves. “The loyalty you showed Brutus in the field was commendable.”

“I thank you.”

“Yet I wonder... can I count upon the same?”

Lucilius’ head jerks up, and when he meets Antony’s gaze, the apprehension in his eyes is naked. “What?”

Antony smiles pleasantly, enjoying his discomfort. “I am not fool enough to believe that allegiances are so swiftly changed from one faction to another, especially not by one so loyal as yourself.”

Lucilius wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, nervously, and a hot spark of arousal rushes through Antony’s body. This is a prize he will enjoy claiming.

“You doubt my sincerity?”

“Of course not. You, good Lucilius, are an honourable man.” He grins. “Like the man whom you thought to imitate. I would merely ask of you some gesture, some show of your fidelity.”

“An oath of loyalty?”

“No, nothing so formal.” He smiles, opens his arms. “Embrace me.”

A shadow of trepidation crosses Lucilius’ face, but he hesitates barely a moment before hauling himself to his feet and moving into Antony’s embrace. Antony wraps his arms tightly around him, pulling their bodies hard together. He feels Lucilius’ muscles stiffen, but then his arms come up, slowly, to Antony’s shoulders, his breath shallow against the crook of Antony’s neck. Antony holds him there just longer than is proper before releasing him. But before Lucilius can draw away, he slips a hand around his neck, holding him in place. Lucilius’ eyes widen.

“Antony?”

With a smirk, Antony kisses him. It is hard, forceful, and Lucilius yields to it, just for an instant, before he remembers himself and bites down on Antony’s bottom lip. With a curse, Antony pulls away, raising one hand to his mouth as he tangles the other in Lucilius’ hair and pulls his head back, sharply, just enough to cause pain. The tang of blood is sharp in his mouth, lying alongside the lingering hint of wine from Lucilius’. His fingers are smeared with red; he smiles. The pain throbs rhythmically, echoed by an answering ache in his groin.

Lucilius is breathing hard, his eyes burning. Antony sees this with satisfaction. There it is; that is what he was looking for.

“Do not presume to take such liberties with me, Mark Antony.” It is a snarl. “I surrendered honourably, and I will be dealt with honourably.”

“Honourably?” Antony echoes, incredulous. He chuckles softly in Lucilius’ ear, low and hot, enjoying the shiver that goes through his body. “O, Lucilius. Honour is for those like your Brutus, who had the good mind to fall upon his own sword. Not for you, so willing to count yourself amongst the spoils of war. Do not presume to be treated as anything but.”

At that, he takes Lucilius’ mouth again, harder this time, giving him no quarter but thrusting his tongue inside and swallowing Lucilius’ growl. Lucilius moves against him as if he would break free, but Antony is the stronger of them and wraps an arm around his shoulders to pinion his arms to his sides. Lucilius struggles, or attempts to, but Antony cuts him short by thrusting his leg between Lucilius’ thighs. Lucilius chokes back a moan, and Antony grins as he realises that Lucilius’ cock is already half-erect beneath his tunic.

“I wondered that you did not take your own life as your commander did, but now I see the reason of it. You delight in surrender, Lucilius.”

With those words, he bites down on the pulse at the base of Lucilius’ bared throat, causing him to moan helplessly, his body slipping against Antony’s. Antony seizes the opportunity and pushes his prize down on the bed, pinning him beneath his weight as the bed ropes groan in protest.

They are both out of armour; it is easy enough for him to rip away their tunics and undergarments. The sensation of skin against skin incenses Lucilius’ struggles anew, but Antony seizes his wrists, holding them both in one fist, and turns him over onto his belly, his free hand pressed to the back of Lucilius’ neck to hold his head still. Now that he has him subdued for the moment, Antony can savour the sight of him, stretched out before him on the bed, his head bowed. He takes it all in at a glance, pleasure and impatience twisting together in his gut. Taking his hand from Lucilius’ neck, he runs it down the length of his back, slow and tactile. A shiver passes through the body beneath him, and Lucilius makes a strange, unintelligible noise, not quite muffled by the blankets - a noise which could be either protest or pleasure.

He would linger more, draw out the pleasure to its painful extreme, but the aftermath of the battle has left him restless. His cock aches, demanding release. He cannot wait any longer. He spits onto his fingers and slides them between Lucilius’ buttocks before thrusting them inside him, one after another, each one causing Lucilius to shudder. 

He withdraws, suddenly, and Lucilius does not quite manage to stifle the groan that escapes him - a groan that sounds strikingly like disappointment. Slicking his palm once again, Antony takes himself in hand and presses himself against Lucilius’ entrance. He gives Lucilius just a moment to feel him, to realise what is coming, before pushing his way inside.

Lucilius cries out between his teeth, his body drawn tight, and it is only Antony’s grasp on his wrists which keeps him from lashing out. Antony groans, lost in heat, but barely gives Lucilius’ body time to accustom itself to him before he starts to move. Lucilius clenches around him with each stroke, incoherent noises escaping his lips. He writhes beneath Antony, but all his struggles serve to do is press their bodies more closely together as they fall into a rough, brutal rhythm. Lucilius’ hips strain against the blanket beneath him; Antony reaches beneath him and wraps a fist around his cock, hot and hard beneath his fingers. Lucilius twists under him and, somehow, he forces one of his wrists out of Antony’s grasp before clawing blindly at the fingers around his cock. Antony bites back a grin, then mercilessly increases the rhythm of his thrusts, matching it with the rhythm of his hand around Lucilius’ cock. This time, the cry that Lucilius gives is definitely not one of pain, and suddenly his hand is no longer trying to pull Antony’s away, but clenching around it, guiding his rhythm, desperate, almost begging for release. He arches his body back against Antony’s, now utterly unashamed in his noises of pleasure.

Antony’s palm is slick with sweat; he moves it from Lucilius’ remaining wrist to his waist, bracing him there as he ruts harder, faster. He is close now, so close; he can feel it building behind his eyes. One thrust, then another - and his climax burns through him, blinding him with white-hot pleasure. A howl tears itself from his throat and, dimly, he hears Lucilius’ own cry of completion.

They collapse together on the pallet, chests heaving as they gasp for breath, skin hot and sealed together with sweat. Antony waits for his blood to cool, for his breathing to become even once more, before withdrawing from Lucilius’ body. Lucilius moans faintly, but makes no attempt now to move from beneath him. The air around them is hot, heavy with the smells of sweat and semen, and Antony breathes it in. He exhales against the back of Lucilius’ neck, running his fingers through damp hair; then, with a chuckle, he presses a wet kiss to the space just below Lucilius’ ear and leans in to whisper:

“Now, good Lucilius, I know you are mine.”


End file.
